The one Time Blythe tried to leave
by HilsonFTW
Summary: I've always wondered why Blythe House never just took her son and ran, and why he is so devoted to her nevertheless. Well, this is my version of events. My fellow fans of a certain band from Athens, GA, might recognise Gregory's little play friend and his family. ;-


Blythe put down her sewing with a sigh, distracted by the low sounds of distress from Gregory's room. He was having a bad dream again, and she only had to think of the bruises on his back to know why. Thank goodness John was gone for the week, at a training course over in Fort Huachuca, so at least her son would have some quality time with her and a chance to recuperate before her husband got back and made his life a misery again. Ok, yes, so it was important to be strict with a boy, she was fine with that. But that strict? And that… cold-hearted? Every morning she woke up she felt a little more uneasy about it, and whenever she had the chance, when John was not looking or, ideally, away, she treated Gregory with extra kindness to at least partly make up for it. Finally the low moans and fidgeting died down and he seemed to settle down to deep sleep again. He had just turned ten now, and was her pride and joy, so tall, so bright, with his – real – father's eyes, so talented at so many things. Every day after school – when John wasn't there to listen at any rate, because he knew that kind of thing irritated him – he told her all the great new things he had learned, how fast he'd run, the praise he'd got from his teachers. And then he'd ask her a million questions about the world out there, most of which she couldn't answer, but always kept in mind for the next shopping trip so she could buy him a book that might. He had lots of books at this stage, about twice as many as most ten-year-olds, and most of them science books, about physics and biology and the space race. He had followed the moon landing with bated breath and wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up. She smiled at the memory of his promise to send her postcards from Mars, when he would be big and strong and helping to establish a colony there.

A thought struck her. John would be gone for another five days. He wouldn't know what she or Gregory were up to. They'd be able to do all sorts of things. What the heck? Blythe suddenly felt angry. Why did she think like a teenager whose parents were out? She was a grown woman, she shouldn't cower in front of her husband, but be able to make her own decisions and love her son her own way in front of him, without fearing he'd disagree and take it out on him. This was 1969, for goodness sake, not 1869! Suddenly she found herself thinking about a family they'd known a couple of deployments back, before Gregory had started school. John and Mary Anne had had three kids, two girls and a boy, and the son, who went by his middle name, Michael, had only been a couple of months younger than Gregory, with the same kind of intensely blue eyes, unruly curls and love for music as him, and the same slightly troubled expression on his face, as if constantly thinking about something quite different from what was being discussed around him. Both intelligent and sensitive boys, the two had immediately struck up a friendship and Gregory had always been welcome in their house, sometimes even staying overnight. John had been a fun guy and a maths buff, doting on Gregory's incessant desire for intellectual stimulation and playing with the boys till they fell over with tiredness. Funny, he had been an officer, too, in the air force, and he, too, had been serving in 'Nam. Yet he had managed to tell his subordinates apart from his family, recognised that one had different needs from him than the other. Why couldn't her John do that? Her? It felt like that less and less. Of course as soon as he'd got back, John had made sure Gregory wouldn't play with Michael again, that strange boy who was sure to grow up a queer. Gregory had to be toughened up, he had said, and those Southern weirdoes wouldn't help in the process. Gregory had been sad for a while and then, it had seemed, moved on. But had he? He was a stoic child, good at not showing his feelings, so she could never really be sure.

Blythe got up. Something had to change, and the chance to make that change happen was now. She was glad she had done the laundry today, that way she could pack Gregory's clothes without entering his room and waking him up before it was really time to go. She packed all his favourite T-shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans, best thing for the road, his underwear, and finally carefully sneaked into his room to get a few of his favourite books and toys. She couldn't pack much, her little Chevy II was just about big enough for a week's shop, but once they were in Jersey with her mother she'd be able to stock up again. She packed her own stuff, then carefully stowed away the $500.00 cash she always kept for emergencies at the very bottom of her handbag, out of harm's way. It would carry them through for the week it would take to get to the east coast, and she'd have a bit left over to help her mother with the extra expense of keeping them till she'd find a job. Time to wake Gregory. She went back to his room, just as he had started fidgeting again. She gently lay her hand on his shoulder. "Shhhhhh, it's only a dream, Liefje…" He woke. "Hi Mom…" It always amazed her how he was immediately alert when woken, no matter what the time was. "You wanna go stay with Oma?" "Now?" "Yes, it'll take us a while to drive all the way to Hackettstown after all, won't it?" "Yeah…" He smiled now. "How long?" "About a week I guess…" Gregory's smile faltered. "Won't dad mind when he gets home and we won't be here?" "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Come on now, there'll be homemade Poffertjes at the other end!" She packed a picnic while Gregory got ready and 15 minutes later they were pulling out of the driveway. Good-bye, Camp Pendleton, good-bye military life, good-bye, most importantly, John House! He would never lay a hand on her boy again.

The car radio was playing a song by that British band, the Rolling Stones. John didn't want their music played anywhere near them, thought they were a bad influence on "the boy" – odd how rarely he referred to Gregory by his name – and always changed stations when they came on, so leaving the song to play now felt liberating. "And I went down to the Chelsea drugstore, to get your prescription filled…" the strangely bluesy voice was singing. "…I was standing in line with Mr Jimmy, and man did he look pretty ill…" "Why does he look ill, mom?" "I don't know, maybe he's got a cold?" "Yeah, maybe…" Gregory didn't really seem satisfied with the answer, though, as if he expected someone mentioned in such a rebellious song to have something more interesting. Soon, however, he fell asleep and Blythe was alone with the radio and her thoughts. She felt good now, not even tired, even though it was almost midnight and she knew she'd have to find a motel soon one way or the other if she wanted to be able to keep a steady pace driving from the coming morning onwards. After about 2 ½ hours, in Barstow, she pulled in. She still wasn't tired, but the motel looked clean and safe for all she could judge from the outside, and she didn't like the idea of heading into the desert in the small hours. She checked in as Margaret van Achterdijk, her middle and her maiden name, there was no need to trumpet it all over the state that she was on the run from her husband. Gregory, as tired as he obviously was, insisted on carrying his own bag. In the morning they had a big breakfast with as many pancakes as he liked, and then headed towards Arizona.

They had made it till Joplin, MO, half the way to the sanctuary that was Warren County, NJ, and had just been about to go to bed, when John caught up with them. He broke open the flimsy door of the motel room, still dressed in camouflage, and he was holding his gun at the ready. "Didn't think I'd make it away from Arizona early, huh?" He said, in a low, cold voice. Gregory stuck his head out of the bathroom door to see what was going on and John immediately seized him into a stranglehold with his left, while pointing the gun at his head with his right. Gregory was eerily quiet, she didn't know if because he had learned that making any kind of sound would only make things worse or because he was in shock. "Right, you slut", John snarled. "You can either quietly come home with me right now, or you can kiss your bastard child good-bye. And, by the way, before you try to snatch him and get away in the parking lot, I've removed your spark plugs." She came, meekly. There was no other way. Gregory was walking between them, his face set into a neutral expression. Only his eyes, wide and scared, showed what he was going through. As soon as they left the corridor, John adopted a smile and hissed at her and Gregory to do the same. "Wife and son were stranded", he told the receptionist. "Had to save them…" He settled their bill.

In the Impala, on the way back to California, John explained. "I tried ringing you three times the day before last, and you never picked up." He laughed derisively. "Do you really think I'm too stupid to realise you'd head straight for your mother's place?" He'd been allowed family leave when it had become clear his wife and child weren't contactable.

Blythe House never tried to escape again.


End file.
